


The Beast

by floatinginemptyspace



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Sherlock being Sweet, emotional reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:39:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatinginemptyspace/pseuds/floatinginemptyspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Christmas day and Sherlock is up to his usual antics yet again. Except, he strikes a raw nerve with you on this fateful day and leaves you with a gift of his own as an apology. A short, fluffy story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beast

**Author's Note:**

> It's a bit of a short-ish story and just a bunch of Christmas fluff. Here's my attempt at making Sherlock seem like a caring dork. Feel free to comment and give me a heads up if I made any grammar/spelling mistakes! If you wish to use my work, feel free as long as I am openly credited. I hope you enjoy!

Throwing the last bit of tinsel on the clinquant Christmas tree, you step back and admire your handiwork, engrossed in the glittering shine that exudes from the shrubbery. You always were a fool for sparkly objects; something about them always enraptured your attention, and this Christmas tree was no exception. Sherlock had always mocked you for your fascination, commenting that you were like an idiot child, but you never paid attention to his snide, little remarks. Sherlock is Sherlock, after all, and rudeness is a facet of his personality that will always be there. 

After your few minutes of appreciation, you plop yourself down on the couch and listen to the dulcet, euphonious tones of Sherlock’s violin drifting through the air and slowly slipping in and out of your ears. Hearing that man play never failed to send waves of pleasure and enjoyment through you, partly because of how indulgent the music is and partly because of how mesmerizing his slender, skilled fingers are. Those fingers of his often starred in your late night dreams and usually led to heated tales of passion and love in your mind. Of course, you always knew that such chimerical dreams would never come true; it was too absurd. Sherlock making love to you was something that would never happen for ages to come. That man seems incapable of reciprocating deep emotions; he’s like a beast. Cold and detached most of the time, yet you had chosen to fall in love with this intoxicating creature and, frankly, you couldn’t care less. Pushing all perverse thoughts to the back of your mind, you place your focus right back onto the dulcet, mellifluous tones wafting around the apartment. Craning your head back and slipping your eyelids shut, you let yourself sink into the music as it caresses your ears and let yourself float…float…float away. 

The quiescent sounds come to a shrill halt, snapping you out of your dazed state. You slowly raise your head, disappointment clouding your features, and watch Sherlock glide into the room with his long, lithe, elegant legs. You see his mouth moving but you can’t hear anything he’s saying in your dazed state. Instead, you turn your attention to his succulent lips, entranced by the way they mold to his face and how sinfully sharp his cupid’s bow is. You start to wonder how those lips would feel wrapped around your mouth, or better yet, suckling at your-

“______________, this is hardly the time to be fantasizing about me! I need you to go out and get me a pig’s skull, now.”

“What? No, it’s freezing! What the hell do you want with a pig’s skull, Sherlock?” You groan. 

“It’s Christmas for Christ’s sake!”

“It’s for an experiment.” 

You hiss and throw on your coat, shooting the absurdly gorgeous man a dead-eyed look, annoyed that he would send you out to run errands for him…on Christmas! With a foot out the door you freeze and feel a sudden, unbridled anger pulsating through you. 

“Actually Sherlock, no. No, I won’t go out and run errands for you like a pitiful servant of yours!” 

You slam the door shut and angrily pace to your room, slamming that door shut too. After a few minutes of taking deep breaths you begin to realize what you did; you realize how stupid and unnecessary your actions were. A silent groan slips through your mouth as you begin to come to the conclusion that you need to apologize for your erratic behavior. But how? How could you apologize without looking like a complete fool? Your gaze drifts the little area underneath your bed and your eye catches the glint of the shining wrapping paper slightly sticking out. You walk over to your bed and pick up the gift tucked under it. Sherlock’s gift. 

With a sweaty palm over your doorknob, you slowly twist the metal and give the door a gentle nudge. Shyly stepping out into the main room, you see Sherlock sitting in his favorite spot, gaze intent on the Christmas tree. This was incredibly embarrassing for you; you had originally intended for this gift to be an indirect billet-doux, a love letter of sorts. A way for you to express your adoration for him without being a total creep and yet here you are, using it as an apology instead. You clear your throat to grab his attention, but you already have an inkling that he knows you are in the room, readying yourself. You inhale a drawn, wavering breath.

“Sherlock. I’m sorry for my behavior before, I didn’t know what I was thinking. I just…just-” You sigh, walk over, and hand him the gift without another word.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” you whisper and trudge back to the confines of your room, in utter despair. You fucked up. You know you did. Damn your quick temper. You snuggle into your bed sheets as a tear of frustration slips out of your eye and runs down your face, staining the once clean sheets. After what seems like hours passes, a creak of your door resonates throughout the small space. Your heart beat quickens in anticipation and you nervously shut your eyes. 

You now feel the opposite side of your bed weigh down and, hesitantly, your eyes slowly peel themselves open. You are met with Sherlock’s gaze, but it isn’t cold like it normally is. His blue eyes are now glittering with liquid warmth you’ve never seen before. He lies down next to you and his face is centimeters away from yours, his cool breath washing upon your face. You inhale the sweet scent of him. He smells a bit like candied apples with nicotine lightly feathered within. It was intoxicating and poisonous; just like him. His eyes scan your face and then he finally speaks up.

“Thank you for the gift, _______________.”

A small grin creeps upon your features and you’re glad he enjoyed the new violin you got him. He always complained about his old violin; something about acoustics, so you went out and got him a new one. He offers a small smile back that lasts a split second and your eyes flutter shut. He places a small, expertly wrapped gift on your bedside table and leaves swift kiss on your forehead. Before you know it, his warmth is gone from your bed and he steps out of your bedroom. Despite the kiss being small and ephemeral, the mere action was sempiternal in your mind. With the image of his face seared into your mind and your forehead glowing with heat, you allow yourself to slip into blissful slumber with a hint of a smile on your face. Maybe your beast isn’t incapable of love after all.


End file.
